Page 34 of Guarded from Treachery

But what if she’s sick? What if something's wrong with the pregnancy? I’ve been reading up on things to look out for—high blood pressure, gestational diabetes, sudden bleeding—and the list of complications in the first trimester is honestly terrifying.

Shit. What if she’s in the bathroom, bleeding out, and I didn’t even notice?

Shit.

“I’m checking on her,” I announce unnecessarily as I head towards Isla’s bedroom.

“Okay,” Erik calls after me. “Rhi’s out checking the property, but I can call her if there’s a problem.” He pauses. “Should I call her now?”

“Just give me a second,” I reply. “Maybe it’s nothing.”

Please let it be nothing.

Once I get to the bedroom door, I rap on it several times as I call Isla’s name. When she doesn’t answer, I slowly push the door open and step into the empty room, raising my voice as I ask, “Isla? Are you okay?”

But there’s no response.

Maybe she’s in the attached bathroom. It’s just a tiny half-bath, no more than the size of a closet, while the full bath is just off the hallway. The door is shut, but I don’t hear the shower or sink running, telltale signs that Isla’s still getting ready.

What if she got lightheaded in the shower and fainted?

I know she gets dizzy in the morning, what if the heat of the shower was too much and now she’s unconscious, possibly suffering from a head injury, and I fucking missed it because I was trying to squeeze in a workout?

As fear edges into full-blown panic, I rush to the bathroom door and knock loudly on it. “Isla? Are you in there? Are you okay?”

At first, there’s nothing. But just as I start debating whether to pick the lock or just kick the door in, I hear a soft, “I’m okay. Sorry. I just?—”

Then there’s a painful retching sound, followed by a low groan.

Ah, shit.

Several seconds later, Isla says, “I’m sorry, Matt. I’m just… I’m not—” She stops. Sniffles. “I don’t feel well this morning.”

And I’m stuck on the other side of the door, feeling helpless.

Leaning against the door, my forehead resting on the smooth wood, I pitch my voice low as I ask, “Isla, honey, can I help?”

Her voice is weak and shaky as she asks, “Could you… grab my phone? I need to call work and tell them I’m going to be?—”

And then she throws up again.

Dammit.

I know she’s been battling morning sickness on and off, but this is the first time I’ve heard her suffering. And I feel absolutely horrible about it.

Once she’s quiet again, I ask, “Can I come in? Just to help?”

There’s a pause. And then, “Oh, no. I’m fine.”

But she’s clearlynotokay.

Gentling my voice, I say, “Isla. Don’t think you’re going to gross me out. You won’t. Trust me. If you really don’t want me to help, that’s okay. But if you’ll let me, I’d really like to.”

Finally, just when I’m about to text Rhiannon myself and ask her to come back, Isla replies quietly, “Okay. The door’s unlocked.”

As I put my hand on the doorknob, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Not because I’m scared to see Isla sick, but because I’m scared of messing this up. Of saying something wrong. Of making her feel uncomfortable.

I just want to do this right.

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